Joint Investigation. Terri Reed

flashed in his eyes.

      “Why did you think a drug deal was going down here?” she asked.

      Drew ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “US Immigration and Customs Enforcement received an anonymous tip about drugs being smuggled from the US to Canada and a major buy was supposedly taking place here tonight.”

      “It was Birdman.”

      “Who?”

      “The killer I’m tracking. He killed this woman. And he wanted you here. He wanted me here.” Cold fingers of dread traipsed up her back. “He knows I’m after him.”

      “Why would he call in a phony crime and bring authorities here?” Drew asked.

      She stared back at the wall. “I believe you saved my life, Inspector.”

      “You think he wanted to kill you?”

      “Maybe he wants me dead.” She lifted a shoulder to convey she was guessing. “Maybe he wants me to suffer.”

      “Why?”

      “I think because I’m the only one to connect the dots.” She turned to stare at the Canadian. The swirling depths of his eyes made her feel dizzy. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, which was set in a hard line.

      She forced herself to straighten and meet his stare once again. “He either would have killed me or he would have framed me for this woman’s murder.” She’d almost walked into his trap. A shiver skated across her nape. “Instead of a drug bust, you’d be arresting a supposed murderer. Me.”

      “Why do you call him Birdman?”

      She tucked her knife back into her boot and then withdrew from her pocket the photocopy of the postcard from the last crime scene. She handed it to him.

      Drew studied the image of the same low-budget motel they now stood in.

      “Look on the back of the postcard,” she instructed.

      “‘Room 218.’” Grim anger darkened the complexities of his eyes. “That’s how you knew to come here.”

      “Yes. And see the little drawing in the bottom corner?”

      “A bird. Crude but identifiable.”

      “Birdman. All his bread crumbs hold similar images. Sometimes they’re hand drawn, as that one is. Sometimes he uses a stamp or stickers with the same type of bird image.” An image she couldn’t get out of her head. “I’ve scoured the makers of both the stickers and the stamps, but they’re too generic and sold too widespread to be of use tracking down Birdman through his purchases.”

      Drew’s brow creased. “Where did he leave this?”

      She inhaled as the crime scene flashed through her mind. “Washington, DC. The postcard was tucked into the shirt of his fourth victim.” Her eyes flicked to the bed and back. “This is number eight. As far as I know.”

      “So he tells you where he’ll strike next.”

      She let out a mirthless laugh. “Or where he’s been.” A knot twisted in her chest. “The clue on the third victim actually pointed to victim number five. And the bread crumb found at number two led to number six.” At Drew’s confused looked, she explained. “Time of death confirms the order.”

      “Why is a lone FBI agent hunting this Birdman?”

      A sour taste filled her mouth. When her boss found out where she was and what she was doing...she’d probably find herself in the unemployment line. But that was a risk she was willing to take. “I’m the only one who figured out the deaths are related. All the deaths occurred in different cities, different jurisdictions. I only stumbled across the connection six months ago.”

      Because of Lisa. Her heart cramped.

      Her eyes swept over the room looking for the clue to the killer’s next—or already dead—victim.

      There, propped up against the television set. A small square object. She sucked in air as dread flooded her veins. From the leg pocket of her pants she grabbed a pair of disposable gloves and slipped them on.

      Drew’s gaze, homed on her back like a laser, followed her as she walked to the console and gingerly picked up the credit card. She read the name embossed in silver lettering. James Clark.

      Her throat closed up. The implications ricocheted through her mind, setting off clanging bells. A man’s credit card?

      She flipped the card over. Her heart stalled. A bright yellow sticker of a bird flashed at her like a neon light.

      The blood drained from her head, making her light-headed. Slowly, she turned to Drew.

      Concern filled his face. “What’s wrong?”

      “Eight bodies. All women, all killed exactly the same way.” She held out the card. “Birdman is changing his MO.”

TWO

      After donning a glove to keep his prints off the evidence, Drew studied the credit card for a moment before lifting his gaze to Sami. She stood stiff as a board with her fists at her side. Though she tried to hide it, he could see she was wigged out by this turn of events. Her face had gone pasty white. She sucked in air, in and out, in and out.

      Unexpected empathy twisted in his gut. The last thing he needed was for her to pass out in the middle of a crime scene and contaminate the evidence. Taking her by the elbow, he propelled her out of the motel room, away from the grisly scene and the eerie drawing on the wall.

      “We’ll turn the card over to our forensic team when they arrive to process the room and handle the victim,” he said once they were on the balcony.

      He tucked the credit card inside an evidence bag. According to Sami, the killer’s MO was evolving. Birdman, as she’d called him, was becoming more comfortable, more confident. Ready to add men to his repertoire.

      It wasn’t unusual for a serial murderer to make subtle changes to their form of homicide as they grew more adept at killing, but a sudden change in gender? That was uncommon, though not unheard of. Was there more than one killer? Were the deaths Sami was investigating even related to the one here?

      He couldn’t discount the bird image. She believed the bird was the killer’s signature. But Drew didn’t know what the symbol represented to the murderer.

      “We need to run the name on the card.” Her terse tone matched the rapid clip of her stride. “Find him. Though it’s probably too late.”

      “The credit card could belong to the victim in this room. Her husband’s?” Drew offered, though he doubted his own speculation.

      She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. Her certainty wouldn’t be swayed. Not that he blamed her. She was obviously committed and passionate about finding this murderer. He appreciated that. Police work took dedication and perseverance. Sometimes to the detriment of everything else in one’s life.

      He should know. He didn’t have much beyond his work. Which was fine with him. He didn’t need anything or anyone else. It was simpler not to have a personal life, because outside the job, it was too easy to let his guard down as he had with his ex-wife. He had no intention of letting anyone else rip his heart to shreds.

      Once they were in the parking lot, Drew headed for the American agents, Border Patrol Agent Wellborn and ICE Agent Fallon. They gathered with the rest of the IBETs team at the back of a van that housed their equipment. Only a few other cars dotted the parking lot. The motel didn’t do a huge business, it seemed, just enough to stay solvent.

      Justin’s nose no longer bled and thankfully didn’t look broken. Drew led Sami to the group of men.

      “Did you catch him?” Sami asked Luke, clearly finding him more approachable than Agent Fallon. Drew didn’t blame her. Fallon